Broken
by grayed
Summary: Dying, Harry Potter is sent back in time by the Fates to change the world before it falls. Slash.
1. Default Chapter

**Prologue**  
_I am the eyes inside staring back at you…_

(September 19, 2067)

The night wind whispered through the purple-colored curtains in the library of the large mansion. There was nothing unusual about this particular night; really, it was a night like any other. There was no moonlight on this night, as it was a new moon, and the breeze that blew was the same as any other that swept through this dusty town. Not even the people here were extraordinary. There were people that gossiped, spied on law-abiding neighbors through the shutters that covered their windows, and generally went about their daily lives, feeding off what others told them, or what they had seen. That was their entertainment, it was their _life_. And so that was this little town of _Baed_, as called in the Old Norse Tongue.

Unfortunately, this town also held a secret. It was a secret beyond the shallow mediocrities that the place had to offer. The townspeople regarded it as a taboo to speak of, and they did not even speak of it to their children, as harsh was the taboo. The elder's locked their doors in the deepest of nights to discuss it with others as old as they were, and only then, it was still spoken in such whispered terms. Mothers and Fathers got very stiff when they heard anything remotely associated with the secret, and they scolded their children and any other adult that brought it up.

As was the way of this town.

Now, there so happened that one former hero, the one formerly called Harry Potter, resided in this very town. He was probably the one that was the least normal. Maybe even _abnormal_, but no one talked about it. Rather, they would just avoid him, but when it came around to it, there was no one that would be able to avoid him. Even at his now age of eighty-seven, he had an aura of command that would make even the superficial townspeople stand up to attention.

Chase Darken, as was now called the former Harry Potter, was an unusual character indeed. At least that is how the townspeople referred to him: the _abnormal._ He lived in a beaten-down house on Victoria Lane on top of a stubby knoll near the edge of the town where the schools were. Every day, school or not, he would walk over to his weather-beaten chair on his lawn and sit and watch. No one really knows what he was watching for; they believed it just habit, and they were probably right.

The kids loved him, in their own weird way, and those closest to the windows during the school day would stare out up to the house on top of the hill in sheer delight when he hobbled across the lawn, his cane swinging around at the weeds that adorned his green lawn, his lips muttering obscenities. Then he would reach the chair and pat it firmly, as if it was an old friend, then ease his old and battered body into it. He would scratch his long white beard, looking around, watching for something, until his deep green eyes framed by wrinkles and age would catch some youngsters.

The children would laugh, saying it just a game when their teachers caught them staring out the window at old Chase Darken, but they knew more than what they were letting on. The teachers would frown in disapproval, because they knew the secret and go back to teaching, thoughtful looks on their face, staring in mystery at the children. Nevertheless, the children would look back at the figure that sat on top of the hill in his rickety old chair, a brooding look in his strange green eyes.

It happened gradually. While walking home, students would stop by the cracked wood fence that surrounded Harry's estate. Peering at the old man, they would call out to him, just wanting him to do something other than stare beyond what they could see. However, he never did anything else. Day in and day out they would come though, even if the old man would not talk to them. Small numbers of children would come first, those of the fearless kind usually grade three through five, and eventually when the older students found out what they were doing, they came too. Elementary, Middle, and High School students came and called out to him, unbeknownst to any grown-up.

After a while, Harry would do something. First, it was small things: leaving the gate open, having cookies waiting on the cracked patio table; all which the children accepted. They would gather around him, sitting down and wasting half their day just to look at him and marvel. Others would try to follow his line of vision to see what he was looking at, but they never saw anything of interest. Soon, it was other things: old Chase talking to the ones that wanted help with their homework, making cookies and other sorts of treats, stringing popcorn onto a string for the tree at Christmas time.

Soon enough, everyday, without fail, more would come just to hear him speak and teach them things. Moreover, always they would look into his deep green eyes and at the secrecy that ran deep; and so they wanted more. So, Harry told them more. He told them about his exploits as a child and about his friends. He would always get a faraway look in his eyes when he spoke of this in his low calm voice, and then the children would leave to go back to their houses for the night. They always wondered, and now they wondered more, during the day time, and even as they dreamt.

Initially, the teachers first noticed something strange. The staff had always known that they students had a fascination with the old man on top of the hill, yet lately; they seemed to notice a more frenzied lure from the students. As always, the students did their class work and homework, yet these days, it seemed to be more drone-like. It also had become quieter. Many notes seemed to be passed around from one person to the next, however, when the teachers read them, they made no sense at all.

The written notes seemed to be in a certain language that no grown-up could understand. Squiggly lines ran vertical across the page in no language that _no _one knew. During lunch and whenever the teachers had a break, they would laze around the teachers lounge, laughing uncertainly amongst themselves, unsure how to proceed with all of the notes and none of them being able to read it. In addition, the seemingly fascination with Chase Darken.

After a while, they deemed to let it go until something more _serious_ happened. Unfortunately, that would destroy a bridge between the teachers and the parents, leaving the kids standing in the middle with Harry.

The afternoons with Chase got progressively longer, as they learned about the past, how to cook and clean, how to use their imagination fully, and even beyond that. The teenagers would paint or clean, smiling and nodding at the younger ones that made cookies and cakes, while all of them listened to Harry. Everyone was happy.

Until one day, Chase got sick. It had started with one person noticing that he was not outside, and then in a matter of minutes, everyone knew that he was not out. Younger students called their older ones, and almost an hour, every teen and pre-teen was watching for Harry. Bells rang different periods, lunch, recess, and then periods again, but Chase never came out. By the end of the day, everyone was agitated. As soon as the last bell of the day rang, every student was gone and rushing up the hill at great speeds. The teachers stared after their retreating students backs and shook their heads. However, they had not a single idea that they were headed toward the old man Chase's house.

The fastest, littlest girl got their first, and rang the doorbell. Her sky blue eyes shone with worry as did those of a hundred or so more students that ran up after her. Soon every student that was not sick at home that day, were there at Harry's manor. Five, then ten minutes passed before they head scuffling on the wooden floor inside the house and the door was opened.

Chase looked ill from the first moment that they all saw him. His tanned skin was a milky, transparent white that made his skin seem paper-thin; his wrinkles seemed more pronounced than before, and dark shadows hung like bags under his dull gray eyes. Glancing at all of them, his eyes falling on each face, he motioned them to follow him. The students followed him through the maze of corridors that made up his manor to the library. It was the grandest room in all of the house and Harry shuffled across the hardwood floor with his cane smacking against the floor and lowered himself onto a beaten leather chair.

The students all dropped their bags to settle down on the floor, staring expectantly at the old man. Chase sighed deeply and he sagged in his chair. Several people glanced worriedly at one another and at their matron. He might be an old man, but Harry did not do anything less than commanding and that was certainly weaker than he normally was.

Chase took a large volume from the lamp table next to his chair and brushed it off, opening its stiff, fluttering pages to the beginning. Then he started to read. Harry read about dragons and the stuff made from fairy tales. The words that flowed from his mouth were like magic, describing every place as if it was real until they reached the end. Chase did not say anything, but got up and trudged back to his room, the children walking out into the night. All came home late that night.

The next few days, he read all sorts of books all along that same theme that he did the first night. Repeatedly, they heard about a wizard and his adventures in a magical school. The magical words that poured from Chase's mouth left no doubt in their minds that this was real, yet logic told them it could not. To every question, Harry answered as truthfully as he could and the children started to believe.

The belief that entered their mind was small at first: a seed of light that shone in their dark, uncomprehending minds, but then it grew. It was a candle of flickering flame and it blossomed. Its once flickering flame grew strong and steady, until it burned the candle down. It did not stop there though. The flame caught onto other things: useless prejudices in the children's minds, different things that they would never need to know or want to remember anyway. In all, it helped them in some way or another. The imagination grew as the flame burned away everything it deemed useless, and they forgot memories of darker times. They believed more until, one day, it clicked. It was real.

It was around this time that the parents started noticing something was amiss. Their children would come home every night, weary and tired, yet joyful and sad at the same time. From some they would hear their children cry themselves to bed; some would watch as their children separated themselves from their parents; and even more, they would lock themselves in their rooms, trying to get away from their family. Or at least their so-called family.

Soon enough, some of the older ones just stopped coming home. Of course, their parents were astounded. Every child in _Baed_ was perfectly born and bred to be the perfect citizen. Thoughts of what their children might be doing sent shivers through them. Drugs and sex came for most in their minds, and shock descended upon them like vultures. This, of course, was not what they were doing, but their parents thought the worst just the same. They had a right too though as no child or teenager, had ever not come home.

The older ones had stopped coming home, not because of drugs or sex, or anything else that their parents had managed to conceive, but because Chase was becoming more sick by the day. They had stayed to help him, confining him to bed-rest, and making him drink lots of soup. They were his worst nightmare, confining him to his room, and yet, they were his saviors. They made sure that he got whatever he needed to feel better. Harry was sure that they would get into trouble and eventually, someone would come looking for them, but he was grateful all the same. Anyone, let alone children, risking their lives for him was beyond him giving thanks.

More left their broken family and broken homes to come and live with Chase. The girl that rang the doorbell when Harry had first gotten sick was the first small one to leave her family to come live with her mentor. Everyone's mentor. After a couple of weeks, the schools and homes were devoid of children. Even the younger toddlers that had not even learned to walk yet came and stayed with the children and the old man. The town rang empty almost, and no one knew where the kids had gone.

It came to be the last day. Chase was ragged and pale, his eyes, once green and full of life and truth became a milky white, still filled with hope, yet dead almost. His body would not be moved by itself, and he had settled, after much arguing, to sit in a wheelchair while the other children pushed him around. Blue veins could be seen under his tissue-thin skin, and it hung off his person like loose, baggy clothing. Harry was truly old, and he knew that he was going to die.

The day was dark and cold, the silver clouds blocking out the sunlight so that a cold seemed to permeate through your skin to your bones. It was humid too, and no matter how dry you were, you always seemed wet. Chase shivered and pulled his blanket up more over his legs. He was sitting in his wheel chair next to the fire in the huge, echoic library surrounded by hundreds of pulsing, warm _magic-filled _bodies. He had passed down his magic to them.

That was _the _secret.

The children, his children, were staring expectantly at him. It was quiet except for the crackle of the huge bonfire behind him and Chase coughed lightly. "My children," he called out in his creaky, scratchy voice. He coughed again and he was handed a glass of water. He thanked the person, and continued, his voice fading by the minute. "My children," he began again, "Tomorrow, I shall not be here." Cries of outrage and sadness echoed though the room at this, and he shook his head, smiling slightly. "You do not need me anymore, my children." He motioned to all of the books that covered the wall from floor to ceiling. "Everything that you will ever need is in those books."

Harry coughed again, his voice becoming hoarse. "You all have the power now, it flows through your veins like none others in the world." He stopped, catching his breath, tears coming to his eyes. "You are powerful, and you will now control your own destiny." His voice became quiet and they strained to hear him. "I am very proud of you, my children." A single tear spilled from his eye and he smiled brightly through his pain. "I love you all."

Then he collapsed into fits of coughs, before falling into a deep a coma.

End Prologue

_(AN: Okay. This is the stupid chapter, but I really need this chapter so that some of the other chapters make sense. Otherwise… It does not make sense. Heh. Yeah… so maybe just review and go to the next chapter. The next chapter is better I promise.)_


	2. Chapter One: Past

**Chapter 1**

_My heart evolved into a rock beating inside of me _

_People say I am strange, does that make me a stranger _

(September 19, 1991)

The small boy's body thrashed in the dark, empty space and a high-pitched scream emanated from his person, echoing, though in the unknown it sounded terribly heart-wrenching. It was a small boy, hardly worthy of the title eleven-year-old, and yet he seemed stronger than any others his age. Not because of his looks, because as stated earlier, he was a scrawny thing that was smaller than those nearly six years younger than him, but because of his power. Nearly a centuries worth of magic leaked from him like some sort of draining pus.

The boy's body thrashed again and his back arched precariously in the dark as a glowing entity, a soul, speared its way into his own soul, intermingling to form a new soul, young as it was old. Breathy gasps came from his tortured body and slowly, but surely, he slowly fell downward. The darkness sucked him up out of the space and spat him back out, throwing his already tortured body down and down, passed stand and screaming people onto the ground, where he lay, semi-conscious.

The small child's body was on fire as every bone in his body was broken at his impact with the ground. His head swam and before his eyes, the first person he saw was someone he never expected to see again: Draco Malfoy. Other figures entered rapidly into blurring line of vision: Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Minerva McGonagall. He saw the headmaster's lips move, but he heard no sound as misty white fully engulfed his vision and he fell into blissful night.

When the small boy awoke, he realized that he was still lying on the ground, staring up at people that he thought to be dead. He could not hear anything, but a Voice entered his mind.

'_Harry Potter'_the Voice whispered enchantingly I _'you have been sent to the past again. We, the Fates, did not like the way that this time line was spent, so we have sent you back here.'_The Voice sighed and the small boy blinked against the rain that poured down. The people above him tried to get his attention, but he let his gaze wander and he closed his eyes again and the Voice appeared.

_'Harry Potter, you have been sent back to the past. Your first year to be exact. We might not like the way this time line exacted, and we know that you don't either, but we cannot force you if you do not want to change the way that this has taken place.'_The image of the Voice was stunning, thought the boy as it stared with its mind eye. For some reason it looked like someone he knew but he could not place it. The Voice had silver eyes and long white hair that reached the middle of its back. It flowing robes of black covered everything, and the boy began to assume that the Voice was sexless. This was probably a true statement.

_'Harry,' _the Voice sighed, dropping his crossed arms to his side I _'do what you must.'_The Voice started to fade out of sight, flickering like a candle almost ready to go out. _'I shall be back, my childe. If you do not like this new life of yours.'_the figure seemed to shrug and it became more blurry_'then you will be able to choose. Death of Life, or Life of Death.' _The figure became stretched before popping out of existence. That last thing that the Voice spoke into his mind was _'And if you do not trust other, trust yourself to do the right thing.'_

Suddenly it was if a light had been turned on, flooding in all of the memories of his former life as Harry Potter, savior, to Chase Darken, dying old man. His eyes shot open and he sat up suddenly, ignoring the aching and cracking of his broken bones as they rubbed against each other. The sound still had not been turned on, but his mind had and so had his magic.

Everyone around him stumbled backwards as the power rushed out, making every bit of magic twisted. A cold was soaked up into his bones, and he shivered, glancing up at the sky. _Dementors_. A cold rage filled his blood, as the rain slammed heavily downwards, and he raised his arms to the sky. A bright white light was gathering into his body, finding an outlet in his hands and energy cackled up and down his arms, forming a glowing dark light at his fingertips.

Ignoring the pain it caused him, he stood up shakily. He really hated Dementors. _BOOM._ The force of the explosion up from Harry's arms to his hands shook the ground like an earthquake and a large sonic boom flew through the air, passing through every living person like a warm breeze, though flattening the trees for miles around and making the old castle behind him creak as it passed through it. That was nothing to what it did to the Dementors through.

Before the Dementors realized what happened, the dark light energy shred through them, tearing through their empty, lifeless bodies, until only cloths, tattered and sliced up, floated to the ground like black birds falling dead from the air. As the sound still had not returned, he did not hear the loud piercing shrieks as the energy wiped those Dementors out of existence. He stood there for a few moments, taking in all of the magic the Dementors had taken from kissing and relishing the destruction of his fears.

That is, until he realized he was a dying man trapped in his own past's broken body. And standing there in the midst of silence, yet surrounded by hundreds of children _just like his own children_, he felt alone. His broken bones slid painfully against each other and he collapsed, his broken legs not being to hold him up anymore. His arms dropped useless against his sides and his head bowed against his chest, the breaths coming from his mouth ragged as internal bleeding in his lungs took place. The magic that had pushed out now receded into his body, cradling him in its embrace so that he would not die. Broken, and bloody on the inside, both in his body and in mind, he fell to the side in the muddied dirt, the night darkness clouding his mind until again blissful unconsciousness took him on a journey.

Dumbledore stared down at the pale boy that lay on the hospital wing bed. It was still raining and thundering out and the Quidditch game had been cancelled because of this. And because of the boy that now was wrapped in bandages. It was nearly midnight also. Once the boy had fell to the ground after killing off part of a major dark species that had been sent to guard Hogwarts from the escaped Sirius Black, Dumbledore had cancelled the game and gathered the boy in his arms and rushed him to the Hospital Wing.

Upon seeing the boy and how some of his bones had broken through his skin, Madam Poppy had banished everyone except Severus from the room. She had needed another Healer, and Severus was just the person. Three hours later they had come out of the room, blood covering the front of their clothing and their plastic gloves on their hands, a weary look in their eyes. The matron had said that the boy would survive but he would be in the hospital for a long while.

Then Severus had proceeded to read off a list what exactly had been wrong with the boy. He had broken every major bone in his body, even his spine, but his nerves had not been severed, so there was a slight chance that he would be able to walk again. Skin had been severed where many of his bones had broken and it had yet to heal. He had several major cracks to his skull from the fall, and a tumor had sprung in his brain, but they had suppressed it. There was possible brain damage and major internal bleeding from his ruptured appendix and kidney and other places from when he hit the ground. There were also several broken ribs and because so, a bone had lodged in one of his lungs, destroying it completely; and he now had a high fever at 104 degrees from pneumonia.

Severus had sighed, taking off his gloves and rubbing his eyes. To Dumbledore, he had never expressed his feelings that much to show tiredness. "I don't know how he is alive Headmaster," Severus had said and the head-nurse had agreed.

Now, as Dumbledore stared at this strange young child, he wondered exactly how it was also that he was alive. Dumbledore took the child's hand in his, marveling at how young the boy was, not barely looking more than six years old, and wondering how he did it. Settling back, the headmaster sighed pensively. He would have to find out tomorrow.

When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to screaming. Or yelling. Whatever you wanted to call it. Even though he had not heard the voice in a long time, he knew the person who was screaming. Harry shivered. That was the voice of one man that had made his life a living hell before he had killed Voldemort. It was the voice of a former Death Eater. It was the voice of one, Cornelius Fudge.

The screaming grew closer until several peoples seemed to barge into the Hospital Wing. Madam Poppy was at the door immediately, trying to shoo the people that had bust into the hospital wing out, but to no avail.

Standing at the door was the Minister of Magic, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Deputy Headmistress, and the Potions Professor, plus a few people that looked like Aurors. Harry tried desperately to drown in the covers when he realized that they were talking about him, but only succeeded in reopening some of his wounds from the night before. He hissed slightly, and Cornelius Fudge's eyes roamed to his, catching on his broken figure and the way his skin was torn through skin and muscle.

A hungry look came into the Minister's eyes and Harry shivered, drawing the covers up higher, trying to cover his small figure. Before the Matron of the Hospital Wing had time to draw the curtains around his bed, Fudge came and sat next to his bed. Not liking the dark look in the Minister's eyes, Harry scooted away, tearing open up more of the wounds and shifting his broken bones, but not caring as he just wanted to get away from the madman sitting next to him.

"So who is this Dumbledore?" Fudge said silkily, and Harry shuddered. A cold made his bones freeze, and he cursed this small broken body. Dumbledore, as if sensing Harry's discomfort and horror, lied. The results of this lie were not what anyone expected.

"He is my great-grandchild." Dumbledore said and shock flitted across Severus' face for a second before his face became an emotionless mask again. Cursing Dumbledore, Severus played along though. It was his job, after all.

"My nephew, Minister," Severus sneered lightly at Fudge. The man nodded, not taking his hungry eyes off Harry. His eyes were deep brown and they seemed to stroke Harry in a perverted way, glancing up and down his small body. Staring at Harry even as he stood, he nodded, as if in thought.

"I shall excuse the destruction of my Dementors, Headmaster." His voice did nothing to lessen the leer in his eyes, and Harry drew in upon himself, pulling his legs, broken or not, up to his chest, fear cloaked as blankness in his eyes. The other people in the room seemed frozen, as they were dealing with the Minister of Magic, and technically, there was nothing that they could do. "See that it does not happen again," Fudge said darkly, and his eyes raved Harry's body before he turned on heel, and swept out of the room, putting his bowler hat on his balding head.

Harry shuddered, gasps coming from his lips, as his whole body shook. Dumbledore swept immediately to his side as if to pull him into his arms, but Harry shook his head no. Severus came to stand beside the bed also, and he looked blankly onto the shivering boy.

"What is your name, child?" Dumbledore asked gently and Harry shook his head, burying his face in his knees. His rail-thin arms clutched around his knees tightly, and his magic seemed to heal him slightly, strengthening his bones. He knew that he could not feel his legs, but right now, he did not care. He could only see the Voice and he could only hear the Ministers deep voice and his red tinted brown eyes. Memories of his past before he defeated Voldemort in his alternate reality flooded back to him, and his blood became ice. _There was so much **blood**…_

"No… no…" he whispered in a small voice. He felt a hand on his back and he stiffened. A creak and the bed lowered as someone sat behind him, rubbing his back.

When someone spoke into his ear, he knew that it had to be Severus. "Childe, what is your name?"

"… Chase Darken, Professor," Harry said softly, and Severus almost did not catch it. The rubbing on his back continued and he became sleepy. Again, he fell into the dark oblivion, this time with someone to catch him.

When Harry had fallen asleep, curled up with bandages wrapped around his person and his magic rapidly healing his broken bones, Severus stood up. He expected to be pulled back down by Harry's hands on his cloak, but the small hands let go of his cloak, curled into fists, and lay across his chest.

"His name is Chase Darken." Dumbledore nodded and settled down in the chair, next to where Severus now sat, a strange look on his face.

Then he turned to Severus, and hatched out a plan, all the time, Chase's breaths becoming shallower as his dreams to nightmares.

-Dream Space-

_The night was dark, and the clouds rumbled ominously across the sky. Harry stood on top a great hill, looking down into a valley filled with red. The red of blood. A strong stench filled his nostrils and he recoiled. It was the smell of decay and disease, and as much as Harry wanted to turn back to the living, he walked downward from the large hill toward the valley where the dead littered the ground like maroon leaves from a tree._

_Harry's feet carried him over bodies decomposed from months of being here, red maggots, fat from blood falling from their bodies. The sky was crimson, filled with viruses of many kinds. Flies carrying illnesses of the deadliest kinds swarmed through the air like little helicopters of disease transportation. Yet, his feet carried him along._

_Bodies he passed all stared back at him with blank eyes, glassy from death. Their blood was spilled on the ground, staining the grass. Harry shivered. Bodies piled on top of each other, horror, anger, and all other dark emotions tainted their faces. The night wizard's were mixed with the light in this graveyard, as none had bothered to sort them out and bury them properly._

_Harry drew his cloak around him more as he walked nearer to the middle of the battlefield. Bodies became more compacted together, as it was that most of the Wizard World was here. But the Wizard World was no more. _

_Something crunched beneath his feet, as dead bodies became scorched remains of human bones. He knew he was near the center of the battlefield. And suddenly, he was there. He knew that he was here, because this is where he had killed Voldemort. The scorch mark where Voldemort had stood seconds before Harry had incinerated him was still there, as black as ever against the brown dead grass. Looking around, he saw all of the carnage around him and shuddered, knowing that he had caused all of this._

_It had been five years to this day, where the Wizard World had fallen to the hands of Harry Potter and the former Dark Lord, Voldemort. Harry collapsed to his knees as memories of all of the blood welled up in his mind. Death and destruction had been everywhere and Harry could have done nothing about it. Voldemort had his attention, and he had fought vigorously with his enemy. _

_That is, until he had heard Hermione Granger, his best friend, scream a deathly scream. He turned around only just in time to see her get hit with the green killing curse along with his other best friend, Ron Weasley. They had been engaged to get married that year and the wedding was all planned. Hermione had even been with a child, and even though they both had insisted that she stay away from the battle, she came anyway. Harry had felt tears running down his face as he started toward them, already knowing that it was too late._

_That was just the chance that Voldemort needed. Spreading his arms out wide, he had invoked a plague of disease that spread like wildfire from him to everyone else in the valley and beyond. This was exactly what Harry had waited for, and dreaded, and had tried to prevent. Yet, he could not._

_Harry smashed his hands against the dead ground, tears running down his pale cheeks as he glanced again at the black spot that marked the final part of the Dark Lord. When Harry had turned back to Voldemort after he'd cursed disease upon the magical world, Harry had been so enraged that from deep within himself, he'd drawn a bubbling, putrid black magic and thrown it at Voldemort, incinerating him and everything around him. Hundreds of deaths were on his hands from that simple curse, as were millions of others from the disease._

_When Harry had turned back from the slowly burning Voldemort, he saw that everyone on the battlefield was slowly collapsing, every one of them staring at him in disbelief and heart-breaking sadness. He was supposed to protect them, yet all he did was watch all of them die at the hands of the their savior._

_Harry opened his hands, staring at them as if he could see all of the blood still on them from five years ago. Digging his nails into his palm, he drew blood, and a raging scream tore from his vocal chords. Slamming his hands into the hard ground, and breaking all of the bones in his hands, he screamed, crying all the same. He was supposed to protect them, damn it! Yet, all he did was destroy them!_

_Harry knew the next part of the dream by heart. It was what he deserved. Standing up from the ground, his head hanging low as blood dripped from his hands to the ground, he turned around. His blood seeped out of his hands in a more continuous stream and it was soaked into the ground. The first ones that he saw were the ones farthest from him. At the very edge of the valley, not more than a mile from him, stood up the first person._

_Even from where he stood a mile away, he could see the rotten and decayed face of a person he was supposed to protect. Then more popped up, their festered muscles almost collapsing upon themselves, but growing stronger as Harry's blood fueled them. Each and every time they stood, they would stand there, glaring daggers at Harry and each time, whispered words of hate would pour from their mouths until a hiss of continuous words echoed over the battlefield. _

_Closer they came, and closer were those that returned to life. Soon enough, bones became muscle and flesh, and ever more, those that he was supposed to protect grew closer. Harry did nothing, just stood there, quietly accepting his dream destruction. He cringed as he remembered it did not feel like a dream._

_Suddenly, there they all were, staring at him with hard, cold, glassy eyes that accused Harry. They moved around him like a flood, always watching but never coming close enough to touch him. Insults were thrown at him, reminding him of all the disaster in his life; of about how he was a failure at everything that he ever did. They reminded him of how Cedric and Sirius, and Remus, and Dumbledore had died because of being too near him. _

_Someone brushed his arm and he felt a sliver of fear. Then abruptly, all of them were rushing at Harry, pulling at his clothing and tearing it off. Claws scraped his skin and soon enough he was standing before all of them naked as anything. His pale skin shone darkly in the red light of the moon behind the crimson clouds, and blood dripped from shallow cuts in his skin. A low moan from all of the reborn people sent Harry's skin into goose bumps, as they felt his blood strengthening them. _

_Swiftly all of their eyes turned to him, and he felt himself cringe under their harsh gazes. Then, all of them were on him. Everyone he knew was tearing at his skin, ripping away his flesh and adding it to his or her own, his blood spilling onto the already blood-red ground. Harry at that moment knew he was screaming ear splittingly. Now-strong arms forced him to the ground, leers of all colors of eyes raking his body. _

_All of a sudden, the frenzy to get his blood stopped and a silence to rival Death deafened Harry. He was still laying on his stomach on the ground, his blood seeping into the ground, strengthening all of those that he was supposed to protect, making him grow weaker as they practically lapped up his blood into themselves. He froze as suddenly he felt a finger stroke his naked leg. He strained to see whom it was, already knowing who it was. His head was forced down into the dirt and he struggled to breathe. _

"_My, my Harry…" came the frosty voice, "You certainly have found yourself in an interesting situation." It was the voice of Voldemort._

_Silence became ruthless laughter when Voldemort said these words. A scream erupted from his lips, but it was hoarse and rough, as Voldemort mercilessly entered him, pounding in and out. But he could do nothing as he was pinned to the ground, his life draining away. A breathy voice was right next to ear, and Voldemort spoke jagged words. _

"_You are worthless, you always have been. You killed off every single person that trusted you, your family, your friends, and the entire magical world. They were all counting on you." The ruthless pounding continued and tears ran down his face as his innocence was stripped away. Sharp nails dug into his back and another hoarse scream was torn from his lips. More blood was drawn and Voldemort lapped it up greedily. "You're not good for anything Potter." It was as if he could hear Voldemort smirk. "At least not good for anything but a good fuck," came the sneering voice._

-End Dream Space-


End file.
